


Pro Patria Mori

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Enemies to... brothers-in-arms?, FFXV Minibang, Happy ending... sort of?, M/M, Sharpshooter Prompto, Wartime AU, opposite sides of a war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Prompto Argentum answered the call to war in search of glory; he never anticipated that he would find an unlikely ally in the ranks of the enemy.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ardyn Izunia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: FFXV Minibang 2019





	Pro Patria Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FFXV Minibang!
> 
> The ending excerpt (and the title of the fic itself) comes from the poem ['Dulce et Decorum Est'](https://poets.org/poem/dulce-et-decorum-est) by Wilfred Owen.

A cloudless night; the glint of the moon across alabaster snow. Even the trees seemed lonely, stripped of their leaves by a bitter Niflheim winter.

Prompto Argentum could imagine his family tucked away in their beds — brave Valeria, clutching her wooden soldier to her chest; sickly little Flavius, curled up at Mother’s side in the space Father used to fill. 

It gave him some comfort, at least, to know that they were safe.

There were things he missed from home, of course: the warmth of a fire, the rare taste of cherry brandy on his lips. The war had made him miss a great many things he’d never appreciated, for the thought was seldom far from his mind that he might not see them again.

Now, he’d give anything for a bite of Mother’s dumpling stew, or for the musty smell of his own blanket on his own bed. He’d never again complain of his cramped little room in the attic, where even he at his modest stature had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the sloping ceiling.

Lonely though it was, you were never truly _alone_ in the Niflian wilds. Owls perched on branches, scouting for their prey, and those rodents wily enough to survive bided their time in the undergrowth until it was safe to move. He had even seen a fox a few nights earlier — the creature had paused in its graceful path across the snow and turned to watch him, and for a few heartbeats they’d seemed to be the only two alive in all the world.

He curled the fingers of one hand into a fist, and stretched them out. Did the same with the others, then lifted his binoculars to his eyes.

He couldn’t see the Lucy he’d shot at earlier; no blood showing dark on the snow, even though he was sure he’d clipped the bastard. Would’ve been a direct hit, too, if a bird hadn’t taken flight from a nearby tree and startled his mark at the last second.

A cloudless night like this, the Lucy was bound to show himself sooner or later. If the wound didn’t flush him out, the cold would.

* * *

Following footprints, slogging through ankle-deep snow. A bitter cold that seeped into his bones.

He should have given up and turned back long ago, but he was stubborn. He wasn’t going to let this one get away, even if it killed him.

His stomach was growling with hunger when at last his searching paid off — a shack in the distance at the edge of the treeline, with footprints leading up to it like a trail of breadcrumbs.

Best case scenario, he’d put the Lucy out of his misery; worst, he’d found himself a place to sleep for the night.

Up close, a cursory glance told him the place had been abandoned since long before the war began. The windows were caked in dirt, too thick to see through, but a shattered pane of glass in one of them allowed him to see a fragment of the room within. It was a modest homestead, one room and little else. When he pressed his eye to the hole, he could see a moth-eaten bed and a stove in the corner.

And then the muzzle of a gun appeared in his vision.

‘Leave,’ a voice said, in perfect Niflian, ‘before I blow your skull open.’

Seemed the Lucy had some fight in him, after all.

* * *

Breakfast was a can of beans eaten cold. He’d tried to heat it over a fire, but the tinder wouldn’t catch and his fingers had been shaking so badly he’d kept dropping matches. He’d given up in the end; it tasted worse than Garula dung, but it was enough to keep him going.

Since his solitary run-in with the Lucy — and since he’d slunk away, crouched low to avoid any bullets aimed for his head — he’d been playing things more cautiously than he was used to. A sharpshooter like him didn’t _get_ caught; much less did they find themselves on the wrong end of a gun at point blank range.

His arrogance had made him sloppy. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

So he’d been watching the shack ever since, eyes trained for the slightest hint of movement within. His mark was craftier than he’d been, and he hadn’t shown his head since. If Prompto didn’t know better, he’d say the place was empty.

But it wasn’t — and the snow was falling heavier now, and with so much to wade through it’d be the better part of a day’s walk back to civilisation.

That shack was his best hope of shelter. He just needed to catch the enemy unawares.

* * *

He took a hollow in a tree for his bed; curled up inside it like an animal hibernating for the winter.

Snow drifted outside the hollow, falling at times in flurries and then more softly, like autumn leaves. It was pretty, in an intoxicating sort of way — like staring into the flames of a fire. A snow-covered landscape might make for an idyllic scene, but the cold was just as deadly as any bullet.

It would have been so easy to sink into a deep, dreamless sleep, yet he fought the impulse with what little energy he had left to him. With nothing more than a bedroll and a heavy coat for warmth, every moment he lingered outside was a moment too long.

Once the moon had risen high in the sky, he left his makeshift nest, gathered up all his things, and ventured down the hill toward the shack. He had no doubt that he was visible out here in the open, but he was counting on the Lucy to be warm and content inside, if not sleeping then drowsing in his complacency.

No warning shots rang out on his approach; no voice met his ears. At a slow, steady crawl he moved ever closer to the shack, until at last he could press his back to the wall and gather up his nerve.

There were no sounds within, and the moonlit landscape was just as still, nary an owl’s cry to pierce the night. If he strained his ears, he could just pick out the faint groan of the wooden boards the shack was made from, creaking from years of disrepair.

He counted out his breaths: one, two, three. Watched the air form a humid cloud in front of him from with each exhale.

_All right. Let’s go._

Quiet as a mouse, he laid his rifle outside in the snow. It was his baby, and he’d need it again before long, but the last thing he needed was it swinging off of his shoulder and making enough noise to wake the dead. Next, he slipped off his rucksack and his bed roll and set them aside, too.

He felt naked without all of it — most of all his rifle — but he moved more deftly as he sidled up against the wall of the shack. At the door, he turned just enough that he could peer through the empty pane of glass.

No sign of the Lucy. He should keep looking until he tracked the fellow down — he could be hiding just out of sight, after all — but the cold had made him weary. Already he was sluggish, his hands never quite doing what he intended for them to do. Any longer outside and he’d be lucky if he kept anything below his ankles.

The door was unlocked when he tried it. His heart soared as he gently pushed it open and met no resistance.

An inch he opened it, just enough to stick the barrel of his side arm through. It was dark inside; stank of rot and mildew. Hardly a homely abode, but it would see him through the night, through the worst of the snow.

In the far corner, he could see it: the end of a bed roll, with a man-shaped lump slumbering on top of it.

Quick and painless, he told himself. Press the muzzle of the gun to the Lucy’s head, and— 

Only it was different, wasn’t it? Least that was what his comrades had said. One thing to pick off an enemy soldier in the distance, too far to see the blood splatter the dirt; another to see his life extinguished right in front of you, in the blink of an eye.

He breathed in and out, slow and steady. He could _do_ this. Had trained for it. It was all just pulling a trigger in the end.

He used his side arm to nudge the door a little wider; once he’d made a big enough opening, he side-stepped in. The floorboards creaked under his weight, and every little sound he made seemed magnified. Just a few more feet and he’d be close enough.

Tentatively, he edged his boot forward a little, easing his weight onto the ball of his foot.

And then he heard a click.

He knew that sound; it haunted him, more real than any spectre. He knew he had a split-second to react, and when it really mattered — he _froze._

Heat. Chaos. _Pain._

His ears rang like nothing he’d ever experienced before, like he was somehow deaf and being blasted with a deafening roar all at once. He didn’t know if he’d been hit with anything, but a sharp pain throbbed and lanced through his head, and all he could feel was _pressure._

Must’ve been a tripwire, placed close enough to the ground that he hadn’t spotted it. Foolhardy. He should have checked. Should have _known._

Shaking, nauseated, he tried to gather himself. It had been a small explosion, relatively speaking. Seemed to have done more damage to the crumbling shack than it had to him, which had probably been what saved him.

With a lurch, he remembered why he’d come here — grappled to find his side arm, wherever it had been knocked away by the blast. He couldn’t see it anywhere in the debris from the blast, so he went for his knife; just as his hand landed on it, he heard the metallic sound of a gun being cocked.

‘I do hope your sense of self-preservation is stronger than your nose for getting yourself into trouble. In either case, I’d caution you not to do that.’

It was as though time had come to a standstill; so slowly it seemed that Prompto was hardly moving at all, he pulled his hand away from the weapon. It was only once he was sure he was far enough from it as not to appear to be a threat that he straightened up and turned to face the other man.

He was a handful of years older than Prompto, wearing the Lucian black-and-silver; in the darkness, his hair was the deep red of old blood.

His gun was still trained on Prompto, his lips pursed in a determined snarl.

‘Well then,’ the man said. ‘You’re lucky that didn’t blow you to bits, although it seems we’ve got ourselves another problem.’

He motioned with the gun behind Prompto. Reluctant as Prompto was to take his eyes off the soldier, he peered back over his shoulder.

The roof had caved in from the explosion, exposing the cloudless sky far above. The door was completely blocked.

There was no way out.

* * *

The Lucy took the far corner of the shack for himself; he left Prompto the opposite edge by the collapsed roof, where the cold from whorled in from outside, bringing with it flakes of snow.

It wasn’t much of an improvement from the tree hollow, although Prompto could hardly complain. He was alive. That was more than he could ask for. He wondered why the Lucy didn’t just shoot him and be done with it. If their roles were reversed, _he_ certainly would have.

The man had taken his knife — made sure to frisk him thoroughly, even taking the box of matches from the inner pocket of his great coat. Yet even so, the Lucy didn’t so much as doze off, or at least not as long as Prompto was awake.

Prompto slept the slumber of a dead man, safe in his corner. He knew that if the enemy soldier meant to kill him, he’d do it whether or not his eyes were open.

The light of the dawn roused him — hazy and yellow-grey. He was cold and aching, but he’d survived the night. Evidently the Lucy hadn’t seen fit to put him down in his sleep.

He didn’t have to look very far to find his unwitting bedfellow; he was crouched over the wood-burner in the corner. With his back to Prompto, it would be all too easy to sneak up behind him, to wrap hands around his throat and—

‘You’re awake. Good.’

The man turned, rising as he went, and it seemed to Prompto that he _continued_ to rise until he was almost touching the roof. He was tall, when Prompto took the time to consider it; tall and broad-shouldered, with a uniform that only seemed to accentuate his frame. He had his sleeves rolled up, as though afraid to dirty the black material with soot.

In the morning light, his hair was a crisp auburn, like autumn leaves; that same red hair crawled up his arms.

Up close, he didn’t seem the caricature of the _Slovenly Lucy_ that Niflians spoke of. His uniform was neat, other than the creases from wear, and his jaw would have been clean-shaven if not for a few days’ worth of stubble.

Prompto dreaded to think how _he_ looked; he hadn’t bathed in a while, and although he’d been keeping his jaw smooth with a little pocket mirror and a straight blade — both of which were trapped outside, in his pack — he’d not had clean water with which to do his ablutions in days.

Hygiene was scarcely the concern of the day, of course. No sooner had the Lucy turned to face Prompto than he patted the gun at his hip and gave Prompto a meaningful.

‘I suspect you’re hungry. I should have enough to do us both.’

He whipped up whatever he could with rations — which admittedly wasn’t much — and Prompto’s stomach growled at the smell of cured meats and baked beans as though he’d never had a drop of tomato sauce in his life. The man even had a hunk of cheese, which he broke a piece from and handed across to Prompto.

‘I have no wish to harm you,’ the man said, with a piece of salted beef partway to his mouth, ‘unless you give me cause to. I will, of course, have to take you back with me.’

Prompto spluttered, choking on the sour cheddar on his tongue. Perhaps he’d misunderstood — an error in translation.

The man’s eyes were serious enough, however.

‘Excuse me?’ Prompto countered. ‘You’re not taking me anywhere.’

He watched as the other man sat back, with what _almost_ seemed to be a smirk on his lips.

‘You don’t have much of a choice.’

Prompto’s eyes darted toward the window just over the man’s shoulder; the man merely laughed.

‘You can attempt to run, of course, but I doubt you’ll get very far. It snowed quite a bit last night. We’re not going anywhere.’

Cold resignation sank into Prompto’s bones with a more insidious chill than any winter night. Every hour that he spent trapped in here with an enemy soldier was an hour spent watching his back. True, the man hadn’t killed him yet — but you never _could_ trust a Lucy.

They ate quietly, each lost in his own thoughts. Prompto spent it assessing his options. He might not be able to run, but perhaps he could overpower his captor. He had to sleep _sometime,_ and if Prompto only remained alert, maybe— 

‘I suppose if we’re going to be stuck in here together, we might as well have a name to know each other by.’

Bemused, Prompto looked up. The Lucy had a hand outstretched to him, as if he meant for Prompto to shake it.

With a huff, Prompto turned his glance back down to his food.

‘Izunia,’ the man said, If he was offended, his tone betrayed nothing of it.

For a long while, Prompto sank into a sullen silence. He despised the Lucy, and his carefree demeanour; despised the soft accent with which he spoke. Yet for all his prejudice, he couldn’t deny that the man had fed him out of his own rations, when Prompto likely wouldn’t have done the same if their roles were reversed.

He scowled to himself. If they were to be trapped together for the time being, he’d sooner not indulge in small talk — but it couldn’t hurt to know each other’s names, at least.

‘Argentum,’ he said at last, grudgingly.

Of course, just because he knew the man’s name, it didn’t mean he’d hesitate to put a blade to his throat when the time came.

* * *

The plan had been dig through the snow once the noon sun had melted it somewhat. Plans, however, had a tendency to go awry.

The window had been frozen shut, and as they attempted to prise it open with the blade of a knife, they’d damaged the frame so that it wouldn’t close again. The snow itself _had_ melted — only to freeze again almost at once, hardening into a layer so dense no tool could hope to break through it.

By the end of their fruitless attempts, Prompto was aching and sore, his fingers numb from the cold. Loath though he was to linger here, it seemed he had no say in the matter.

Izunia rewarded them for their hard work with a tin mug filled with hot tea. It tasted horrible, but it thawed the blocks of ice that Prompto’s hands had transformed into, and it warmed his belly.

‘Cards?’ Izunia said, slipping a deck from the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘Don’t suppose you have anything worth betting.’

* * *

Cold. Ceaseless, never ending cold. When Prompto slept, it was as far from Izunia as he could get; when the fullness of his bladder nagged at him, he had nowhere to relieve himself but the corner of the room.

On their second morning, they looked out to see if more snow had fallen (it had); after the sun had had time to soften the powder they attempted once more to dig their way through (they could not).

Evening fell; the darkness and the chill settled in. Yet more rations were pulled out from Izunia’s rucksack, although their meal was more sparing this time. Prompto contented himself with a square of cheese. He wasn’t about to lower himself to begging.

When he refused Izunia’s offer of a game of cards, the Lucy seemed more than happy to play solitaire. For hours the shack was filled with the soft sounds of shuffling, of Izunia’s fingers gliding over the cardstock.

He settled into his makeshift bed, curling into his great coat. Still the sounds of shuffling went on across the room from him.

He amused himself with thoughts of snatching the cards from Izunia’s grasp and tossing each and every one of them into the fire.

* * *

Something was different this morning. The fire had gone out in the night; frigid air had filled the room, frosting the windows. The Lucy was curled up by the stove, even though the flames had long since died down. This was the first time Prompto had woken to find the man asleep after him.

Now was his chance.

He crept across the floor, making little noise as he went. He’d been in here long enough that he knew which boards creaked, and which ones were safe. Skirting the edge of the room, he made his way around until he was alongside the far wall. Izunia still hadn’t stirred.

If they were friends — comrades at arms — this would be the moment Prompto began to worry. It was strange enough that Izunia hadn’t risen before him, as was his habit. For a man whom it seemed impossible to get the drop on, that Prompto hadn’t alerted him yet was stranger still.

Prompto watched for the man’s breathing: the steady rise and fall of his form. Each one was so slow to come Prompto might have missed it if he weren’t paying attention.

He stooped once he was at Izunia’s side, lowering himself slowly to the ground. He’d be happiest with the gun, but he knew the Lucy slept with it folded into the great coat under his head. The knife, though — Prompto’s — was at Izunia’s hip. He could see it glinting in the wan morning night, the blade dulled from being put to mundane tasks.

He was trembling as he reached down, his fingers so traitorous he thought he’d drop the knife once he got his hands on it. But then he stopped.

Izunia hadn’t moved at all, and when Prompto looked up into his face it was gaunt and sickly, sweat beaded at his brow. He was so painfully still it was as though he were already dead — but he wasn’t quite, his faint breaths still misting the air.

It should have been a boon; a symbol of divine favour. Yet he thought not of the man in enemy uniform whose life he’d been so set on taking, but of the one who’d fed him, who’d spared _his_ life when he’d had no reason.

Prompto had a choice. He could take this sign from the gods — could take his knife and Izunia’s gun and leave him for the jaws of the frost. The alternative was unthinkable, and yet…

As if possessed by someone else, he hurriedly tugged at Izunia’s clothing, pulling it loose. The man’s shirt was soaked through with sweat and blood, the folds of the fabric concealing a wound that Prompto hadn’t seen before.

This must have been where Prompto’s bullet hit him, far below his head, inches shy of his throat in the dip above his collarbone. From the rancid smell and the sticky yellowing ooze, Prompto would wager it was infected.

Untreated, it would be the death of him.

* * *

Ice, melted into water and boiled; whatever medical supplies Izunia had upon his person; the blade of the knife, dull as it was. These were the tools Prompto had to work with, along with his limited knowledge of first aid. Prompto did the best he could to remove the bullet and sterilise and mend the wound, beyond which it was Izunia’s job to try to heal.

By all accounts, he shouldn’t have made it through the morning — and yet somehow, miraculously, he persevered. By night his skin was still frightfully gaunt; by morning, his fever had broken.

He might yet live. Prompto wasn’t going to wait around to see if he did.

Izunia’s gun was useless — wasn’t even loaded, to Prompto’s surprise — although the Lucy posed no threat while convalescing. He’d have time enough to try to dig his way out and get far from here before Izunia could entertain any more ideas of taking him prisoner.

It transpired that it was much harder work with only one set of hands, though, and before long Prompto’s fingers were bloody and bruised for his efforts.

He sat eating a lonesome dinner that evening, his back to the stove for warmth. Mouthful after mouthful, he tried fruitlessly to count how long he’d been trapped in here — how long since he’d entered the frontline. The days had all blurred into an unending nightmare.

‘A… aq…’

It had been so long since he’d heard Izunia’s voice, and it was so feeble he might not have recognised it anywhere else. He set his tin of beans aside and scooted across the floor, leaning close to his patient.

_‘Aqua,’_ the man said, his voice reed-thin.

He mumbled something else in his mother tongue, something Prompto couldn’t decipher, but he understood _aqua_ well enough; it had been one of the first Lucian words he’d learned, a resource so precious it transcended language.

Fortunately he had a pot of boiled water already cooling. He decanted it as well as he could into the tin cup he’d borrowed from Izunia and brought it to the man’s lips, allowing him only a little at a time.

The man made an attempt to push himself up, but he was too weak and shaken, his muscles fatigued from his illness. He settled himself for tremulously turning himself onto his side.

‘Rest,’ Prompto said, with a brisk shake of his head. ‘You almost died.’

He couldn’t understand the wide-eyed look on Izunia’s face; nor could he fathom it when the main reached out and took his hand, clutching it in a feverish grip.

_‘Gratias tibi,’_ the man said, his voice a hallowed whisper.

Before Prompto could think to ask his meaning, Izunia’s eyes were rolling back in his head, the pull of sleep too great for him to fight any longer.

* * *

Come December, the streets of Gralea were always decked out in honour of the impending Solstice — lush trees and berry wreaths hanging from the doors of homes and shops alike; lanterns glittering merrily by windows. As a boy, Prompto had been so enchanted by it all, and on Solstice Eve his excitement had been so great that the prospect of sleep had been virtually unbearable.

This wasn’t how Prompto meant to spend Solstice, snowed in with the enemy; he certainly hadn’t expected to break bread with the man.

Yet this year, Solstice found them huddled around the wood burner together, with a feast of sorts to be shared between them. They even had meat — actual fresh _meat —_ after a hare had wandered in through some hole in the wall and into their greedy grasps.

Prompto’s comrades would never believe him; would wonder how he could stomach sharing a meal with a filthy _Lucian_ rather than stab him in the back. Truth be told, Prompto wasn’t sure what he would tell them when the day came.

_If_ the day came. Their rations were stretching painfully thin, their feast notwithstanding. Before long, there’d be nothing left.

It was an unspoken secret between them, shared with glances. Prompto saw it in the way Izunia motioned for him to take second helpings; the man even broke out a small flask of brandy for the two of them to share, perhaps having hidden it for just such an occasion.

Prompto supposed, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a bad way to go. Warmth, food, the fire of liquor in their bellies — even the company wasn’t too shabby, all things considered. It wasn’t a hero’s death, but he’d stopped wishing for that when he realised the man on the other end of his rifle’s scope bled just as red as he did.

‘Who’s missing you at home?’ Izunia said, as he passed the flask over to Prompto. ‘A sweetheart lighting a candle for you, perhaps?’

Prompto chewed his lip. With a shake of his head, he took the flask and allowed himself a tiny sup.

‘Just my family,’ he replied. ‘Mom. Brother and sister. What about you?’

Izunia seemed to consider the question for a long while as the flask was returned to him. Maybe Prompto was imagining it, but there seemed to be a hint of bitterness in his expression.

‘I don’t imagine I’m being _missed,_ precisely.’

He seemed to mean to drop it, so Prompto didn’t press him. After a while, however, the man sighed and set his flask down with a harsh _thud._

‘I was betrothed,’ Izunia said.

Prompto drew in a sharp breath. He could imagine where this was going.

‘What happened?’

Izunia’s hazel eyes crinkled in distaste.

‘My brother.’

Silence rang throughout the room; absently, Prompto plucked up a piece of salted pork and popped it into his mouth, hardly tasting it.

‘All that’s in the past, of course,’ Izunia announced suddenly. Picking up the flask once more, he raised it in the air between them. ‘To odd bedfellows.’

Prompto nodded his head. After Izunia had taken a sip, he took the flask into his own grasp and motioned into the air.

‘To friendship in the strangest of places.’

Silence settled over them once more, but it was a comfortable one — one that Prompto was content to savour as they finished off the last of their meal.

Once the roar of the fire had died down to a gentle crackling, they turned in for the night. This time, however, when Prompto made to move to his usual corner, Izunia beckoned him over to his side by the stove.

Rightfully, Prompto should have refused. They’d broken bread together, but Izunia was no less the enemy than he had been that first night out in the cold.

And yet… And yet there was only the slightest pull of resistance as Prompto shuffled across the floorboards, dragging his greatcoat with him.

Izunia’s bed roll was already laid out in front of the stove, threadbare and speckled with dirt and blood alike. Izunia took up the outer edge of it — wordlessly, Prompto moved into the space left beside him, closest to the lingering warmth of the fire.

As he settled onto the mottled bedroll, he could feel the echoing chorus of his heart against his ribs. Izunia was close to him — close enough to slide a blade between his ribs, if he pleased — and yet for all that Prompto should balked at the obscenity of sleeping with the enemy, there was something that felt uncannily _safe_ about having him near.

Perhaps something changed when you attempted to take a man’s life, only to fail; perhaps the shift was in the moment that Prompto had saved him. They’d both had countless opportunities to put each other out of the picture, and they _hadn’t._

There was still a war being fought out there, scarcely miles away, still men perishing in the frozen pastures. To Prompto, it felt as distant and foreign to him as the Lucians once had, with their dark hair and bawdy voices.

He settled down and closed his eyes, hugging his coat close. When he felt Izunia’s hand brush his side he froze — and as the hand settled on his waist, heavy and sure, the tension flooded from him.

It was a different sort of silence than the kind they’d spent so many nights in, each in his own corner. This one felt fraught: crackling with potential.

Izunia was the first to speak, before Prompto ever worked up the courage.

‘I’m not sure that I…’

Prompto swallowed. Opening his eyes, he nodded for the man to continue.

‘I’m not sure that I ever thanked you,’ Izunia said. ‘For…’

He didn’t need to finish his thought. Still Prompto thought of that night, when he’d held a stranger’s life in his hands — and chose, with utter conviction, to kindle it rather than snuff it out.

‘I… I think you did,’ Prompto murmured. _‘Gratias tibi._ Lucian, right?’

A beat of silence, and then he felt the brush of Izunia’s hair against his neck as he nodded behind him.

‘Well.’

He felt the hand at his hip squeeze ever so slightly; felt the warmth of Izunia’s breath skirt against his collar as he sighed.

‘Thank you, again. I know that decision mustn’t have been an easy one for you.’

_It was easier than you think._

The words stuck in Prompto’s throat, heavier than lead. The lines between enemy and ally had been blurred more than enough; to voice such a thought out loud would be to cross a line that he didn’t think he could come back from.

‘Prompto,’ he said, instead. ‘My name. It’s Prompto.’

‘Ardyn.’

It felt as though there was still more left to say, but the lure of sleep was too great. They had no dearth of time, the two of them.

Perhaps time was all they had left.

* * *

Unbeknownst to them, on the morning of the Solstice a ceasefire had been called between both sides. From dawn, through the day and into the night, no life was taken on the frontlines; comrades huddled together and shared what little food they had, regaling one another with tales from home.

All across the trenches, on both sides, the sounds of merriment could be heard for miles around — songs in Lucian, and in Niflian; even in the peculiar tongue of Galahd. It was as though for one day, the world had come together in celebration of something bigger than the war: in celebration of humankind.

Prompto was still curled close to Ardyn when morning broke the next day, and it seemed to him there was a change in the air. The discovery that the snow and ice had melted enough to free them of their frozen prison was to be only the _first_ piece of good news they received.

Prompto had known they should go their separate ways — and yet they’d walked side-by-side towards the nearest village, stripping insignias from their uniforms as they went. If anyone thought the sight of them together was odd, not a word was said. In fact, everyone they passed greeted them with joyous smiles and cheers of glee, and Prompto couldn’t help but think something monumental had happened that neither of them were privy to.

‘A drink, perhaps,’ Ardyn said. ‘Then we can decide what to do next.’

The Black Stag was the village’s only pub, and it was overflowing — patrons pouring out into the street, not fighting to get past each other but joining as one.

‘What’s happening?’ Prompto asked, plucking at the sleeve of a kindly old man with a face as wrinkled as a prune.

‘Peace,’ the man said. ‘Blessed Astrals, peace at last!’

Prompto opened his mouth to ask more, but the man was already turning away, clapping a friend so hard on his shoulder that even Prompto flinched.

It was like wading through the tide as they tried to make their way in; every time they made any progress, the sea of bodies would sweep them the other way. When at last they made it through the door, Prompto was sweating and red in the face, and he needed that drink more than he had all winter.

Inside, it was all noise and chaos: villagers clamouring to make themselves heard. Just when Prompto thought his head couldn’t take any more, a piercing whistle cut through the din, rendering everyone silent.

‘Quiet!’ a man boomed. ‘He’s speaking!’

There was no mistaking the droll tones of the Niflian chancellor; Prompto had grown up listening to him each morning, piping over the loudspeaker in the classroom as he spoke the patriotic words of the Niflheim nation.

His voice crackled, tinny and distorted by the radio from which it was projected. Prompto turned his ear toward the far side of the room to hear better, and as he did so he caught sight of Ardyn’s face, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

_‘Glorious people of Niflheim. Today, on the five-hundred-and-eighteenth day since our nation entered into war, I humbly bring you news…’_

* * *

So much had changed since Prompto left to join the war. It seemed unfathomable, somehow, that the streets of his hometown should be precisely the same as he remembered them; that for all intents and purposes, they’d been frozen in time, simply waiting for his return.

It was a school day — how peculiar to think that in the days since the war ended, life had returned so effortlessly to normal — so he knew his brother and sister would be awake soon. He only had a short window to slip in and do what needed to be done.

The tree had already been removed, so he had to make do with what he could find: a potted fern from the kitchen, which he decorated with a scrap of red ribbon he found in a drawer. The gifts he’d bought in town were wrapped only in brown paper, but he hoped the children wouldn’t mind.

Once he was done, he began fixing breakfast — eggs and toasted rye, with a sliver of margarine and jam, and cups filled with creamy milk. He set it all out on the rickety table in the kitchen, in the usual places. His heart jumped with excitement as he surveyed his hard work. He might have missed Solstice, but he hoped this would more than make up for it.

At the bottom of the stairs he shed his shoes, and quiet as a mouse he climbed the steps, careful to avoid the creaky one just before the top.

* * *

_Eight months later_

Prompto scratched at his chin. He’d been letting his hair grow in ever since he got home, but he wasn’t used to the feeling of an unshaven face and it itched and prickled, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the damned thing was worth the time saved not having to shave each morning.

The girls seemed to like it, at least — although perhaps it was less the beard and more the novelty of having a veteran of the war in their hometown, and a _sharpshooter_ no less.

Coming home had been the sweetest thing, but the return to his normal life had been a jarring one. The mechanic’s garage where he’d worked before the war had gone out of business. He needed to find a job, and quickly.

And so it was that he found himself seated in a hallway — with a dozen men and women, young and old — wearing a borrowed woollen suit that made him itch and smelled of old cabbage.

The door at the end of the hall opened; a woman emerged who looked no older than thirty in spite of a full head of silver hair. She peered at each of the faces, before looking down at the clipboard in her grasp.

‘Argentum?’ she said briskly. ‘Prompto Argentum.’

Fighting the urge to squeak, he jumped up from his seat, raising his hand as might a schoolboy in the class of his favourite teacher.

‘Here!’

The woman gave him a look. Without a word, she beckoned him over, slipping through the door from which she’d appeared.

* * *

‘So? How did it go?’

His mother poured him a fresh cup of coffee, all but peering into his face as she did so. He’d hoped to get something to eat before being interrogated, but apparently she had other plans.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It went fine.’

He reached for the coffee cup, but just as his fingers brushed the handle, she snatched it away.

‘Fine?’ she echoed. ‘Only fine?’

He sighed. He knew there was no use in fighting this battle; his mother always won.

‘It went well, Mother. I just don’t want to get my hopes up. They told me they’ll be in touch soon.’

Graciously, she pushed the coffee towards him once more. When he smiled up at her, she pinched his cheek with the same look of fierce pride in her eyes that she’d worn when she sent him off for his first day of school.

‘Oh, a letter was waiting at the post office for you,’ she said, bustling away. ‘Strangest thing — it had no address, only your name.’

Apprehension tugged at Prompto’s gut. The war was over, yet he couldn’t help the fear that someday he’d be called to task for the things he’d done in the name of his Motherland — that someday, he’d have to answer for his crimes.

When she set the letter down on the table for him, however, it was written by hand, his name sprawled across the envelope in flowery cursive. The name of the town was printed underneath it, and nothing else.

When he flipped it over, his breath gushed from his lungs. On the back, in that same cursive, was a name he’d never seen written, but had made itself at home in his thoughts on many a night.

_If undelivered, return to:_

_Ardyn Izunia_ _  
_ _114b Via Sol_ _  
_ _Insomnia_ _  
_ _Lucis_

‘What is it, love?’ his mother asked, stroking a hand over his hair. ‘Who is it from?’

Jolting as if caught in some clandestine act, Prompto pressed the letter to his chest and offered his mother a cheery grin.

‘Oh, just one of the boys from my regiment,’ he said. ‘I’ll open it later. I’m _starving.’_

* * *

He waited until long after he was sure everyone was asleep, and then waited some more. Whatever Ardyn had to say to him — whatever he had deemed so important that he would call attention to the both of them by sending correspondence — he knew that he didn’t want to be interrupted.

With a wooden letter knife he carefully sliced the corner of the envelope open and eased it along the top edge, careful not to damage the paper within. Once it was done, he sat for a long while with the letter still in the envelope in front of him, waiting for some sign that he could go ahead with it.

No sign came; if he wanted to do this, he would have to make that decision himself.

Drawing in a deep breath, he slid the paper out and opened it from its meticulous folds, setting it down beside his lamp so that he could read it.

_Dear Prompto,_

_It took me quite some time to decide whether or not to send this; it took longer still to arrive at any sort of idea as to_ where _to send it. Fortunately I have an acquaintance with a friend in Niflheim, who could tell me little more than the town where you grew up. I imagine that is the best place to start._

_I must apologise for any errors contained herein. As a college student, I took it upon myself to learn a great many languages, however the nuances of written Niflian are somewhat lost upon me._

_I do not know whether it will please you or disturb you to receive this correspondence, but it was something I felt I had to do for my own sake. If you do not wish to reply, I understand. Perhaps this letter will not even reach its intended recipient. If I do not hear from you, I will take it as a sign from the gods that nothing more should come of this flight of fancy._

_Months have passed since the day we arrived into that village and learned the war had ended, and yet at times I still awaken in a cold sweat, ears pricked for the sounds of gunfire. I suspect the dread grip of the war will not relinquish its hold upon me for some time to come._

_Yet jarring as it is to admit, some nights I rouse to find a shadow, an echo of you, more familiar to me than the room I call my own. Perhaps you will understand something of this — perhaps you will not — yet at times it feels as if the home I returned is changed somehow… Or perhaps that_ I _am the one who is changed, irrevocably so._

_I have told no one of the time we spent together, yet I think of it often. I think of you, and how you could have killed me; how you no doubt wished to on many occasions. I think of how easy it would have been for you to let the fever consume me, and yet you did not._

_The wound has healed, although a scar remains. It’s hidden easily enough beneath the collar of my shirt, yet when I am alone I stare at it in the mirror, at its marred surface, and I do not recoil as I suspect I should._

_It is all I have left of you, you see. All those days and nights, and the only thing left to me of you is the wound from the bullet with which you intended to kill me. Ah, isn’t fate peculiar? I wonder — would any other men have done the same, in our shoes? To think if your bullet had struck true, I wouldn’t be alive today to write this._

_I suspect the likelihood of our ever coming together again, face to face, is vanishingly slim. That might be for the best; you might wish to forget about me entirely. Such is your right._

_If you feel the same as I, however — if you awaken in the night and forget for a moment where you are, crying out for something familiar — then perhaps you will write me back. I have included my address on the envelope of this letter, but I will also give it above, just in case._

_I do hope you will consider it. I am curious to know more of the man who could have left me to die, but chose not to. I am curious if I am the only one who feels the crushing weight of emptiness, as though some fundamental part of me was left behind on the battlefield, never to return._

_I remain faithfully yours,_

_Ardyn Izunia_

It took three readings to fully soak everything in; with each attempt, Prompto poured over Ardyn’s words with increasing fervour.

_It is all I have left of you, you see._

A twisted, insidious little voice in his head told him he should ball the letter up and burn it at once. It’s what would be expected of him — the Lucies were still the enemy, after all, even if Niflheim had lost the war.

He felt a kinship in Ardyn’s words, however — something he hadn’t felt with _anyone_ in a very long time. Even though his comrades with whom he’d remained in contact might know something of the struggle of returning home, he never quite felt that they went through what he did.

It was, at times, as if the real him had been left behind in the shack that day, curled up in Ardyn’s arms. The him that sat here now, at the same desk he’d had since he was a little boy, was merely a husk.

The hour grew late; he’d have to be up early to help cart the kids off to school, and search for more job openings in case the factory didn’t pan out. Yet even so, he was scrambling for paper before he knew it, almost tearing it in his haste.

He didn’t know what to write. He’d never been very good with words, and as his teachers had told him for years, his cursive was atrocious. He knew that he had to write _something,_ however, even if it was just to jot Ardyn’s name down on the page.

He chewed his lip as he pressed the nib of his pen to the paper. Should he try to sound educated? Aloof? Should he wax lyrical about the joys of returning home?

Or should he spill onto the page all the doubts and worries he’d had since returning home: the fear that things would never be as they once had.

_Dear Ardyn,_ he began. _I’m sorry I’m not very good with words. Mother always said I was better with my hands, just like Father. I guess that’s why I got so good with a rifle._

_Sorry about that, by the way — the bullet in your shoulder. If you think of it like a memento, I guess it’s not all bad. I just wish I could’ve given you something nicer, like a hanky or something. Wouldn’t that be something?_

_Maybe people would say it’s not appropriate for us to keep in touch. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I ought to tear your letter up and throw it out. But I don’t want to._

_I wanna tell you I don’t feel the same, but Mother told me a liar’s the worst thing a man can be. I feel it all the time. Like I’m a clockwork doll, and somebody wound me up and set me on a path of their choosing._

_I feel hollow sometimes. ‘As though some fundamental part of me was left behind’, like you said. So yeah, I get it. And I don’t totally understand it sometimes. All I know is, when I got your letter, it was like something fell into place. For the first time in a while, I felt right._

* * *

In the months since that first letter from Ardyn, they’d written to each other as often as they could. It was starting to get difficult, though — Prompto’s mother had eyes like a hawk and noticed when he did anything out of the ordinary.

He read Ardyn’s letter in whatever privacy he could find: the breakroom at the factory between shifts; the alleyway behind the mart while he ran his errands. Today he’d picked the park, and he sat on a bench underneath an old oak tree, reading while the leaves fluttered down in shades of red and gold.

He hadn’t told anybody about Ardyn, and he wasn’t sure he ever would. In some ways, he kind of liked the thought of it — never having to explain, never having to justify. With Ardyn, he could be somebody different than the young man who worked at the factory to support his family; somebody who didn’t have to paint on a smile each day.

Carefully, he folded the letter once he’d finished reading it, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. This one would go, along with the others, into the gap under the floorboards in his room — but not before he had the chance to write a reply.

Maybe it was a little odd, to be writing to somebody who’d fought on the other side of the war. Maybe it was _more_ than a little odd to think of Ardyn as his friend. As… something _else._

He’d hold onto it for as long as he could, though: savour the contact from somebody who just _got_ things, like nobody else did. Maybe there’d come a day when he had to answer for all of it, but until that day came, he’d wait for Ardyn’s letters like a kid waiting for Solstice morning.

* * *

_My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
_ _To children ardent for some desperate glory,_  
_The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
_ _Pro patria mori._


End file.
